


Architecture and Clockwork

by Anonymous



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Sheer authorial indulgence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 04:00:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1495825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Metatron (SPN) meets Metatron (HDM). What happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Architecture and Clockwork

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArionWind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArionWind/gifts).



It’s dusty, and dimly lit, and it reeks of human failure. But then, so does most of Earth. Any Earth, all of them, all the ones possessed of humanity and their trappings. They all have the same cloying sense of mortality and impurity.

Angels are not bound by the limitations of the physical creatures that live their tiny, frivolous lives. And in much the same way, they are not bidden to a single existence. Their souls, if an angel can be said to have them, are wheeling, clamoring cogs and pins, chipping away at the obscure materials of existence.

There are two, and twelve, and ten thousand Metatron, Born of Man, Scribe and Scholar, Enoch, son of Jared, son of Malahlels. And there is only one.

A grandiose piecemeal thing clicking and clattering away in ways that human minds and human forms are not meant to comprehend.

That the two of them should meet here is only to be expected.

The greater of them, broader and bolder, a more central gear in the machine of Metatron, approaches his lesser with no ill intent.

But Metatron is a paranoid thing, distrustful always and at every turn, and to see himself-  _and not himself; a self from another stage of existence-_ standing there, all congealed light and whorling dust and humanity etched into his fingers as it always is, written in greed and lust and thirst, sends the lesser of them immediately on edge.

"Who are you? What do you want?" A testament to the frailty of his presumed power, that he fears for its loss so easily.

Is this really another aspect of himself? 

Is his own power likewise frail?

But how could it be, when the Authority is locked away- siphoned out of every discrete world at once, stories left unwritten and unfinished- and he is the only Power That Be?

Wormy doubt slides in among the crevices of his Dusted form. Witches are children to him, but children often speak the truth, for lack of the ability yet to lie.

Perhaps in their tales of the Usurper, the Maiden-Mother who would heal existence as if it were Her child, there lie fragmented slips of honesty.

"Nothing you haven’t already given me." The Greater of them speaks to himselves, and turns in directions that this lesser entity, a sliver of true Angelic dominion, cannot imagine and falls into another world.

If one of him is enough to make him doubt, then surely a few hundred will suffice to make up his mind.

A plan to kill the Second Eve begins to form.


End file.
